


The Wicked Secret of the Immortal

by usuallysunny



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Dany loves fire, Dark Daenerys Targaryen, Dorian Gray inspired Jon Snow, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Gothic, Immortality, London 1880s, Past Abuse, Penny Dreadful AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:08:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25387306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/usuallysunny/pseuds/usuallysunny
Summary: On her first night in dark and dreary London, Daenerys is dragged to a ball held by the enigmatic and elusive Jon Snow.But Daenerys has secrets of her own—secrets the ageless Mr Snow seems determined to draw out.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 35
Kudos: 583





	The Wicked Secret of the Immortal

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Penny Dreadful! I have borrowed a few lines from the show, so credit to the amazing writers. Hope you enjoy this. Trigger warning for mentions of past abuse, both physical and sexual. It's not too explicit, but it's there.

* * *

_Every child knows that the Targaryens dance too close to madness._

It was a strange bedtime story, a lullaby meant to frighten not console, and Daenerys could still hear her nanny’s voice like a warning in her ear.

 _The father is not the first,_ she would hear the servants whisper, _madness and greatness are two sides of the same coin._

She supposed they thought themselves very smart, didn’t realise the walls had ears, and they told stories of what was said the day she was born.

_Every time a new Targaryen is born, the gods toss a coin in the air and the world holds its breath to see how it will land._

And so Daenerys’ fate was sealed from the moment she opened her eyes on the world—and even before that.

The Targaryen name was a curse, its preconceived notions weighing her down in dark shackles. It would take her most of her life to realise she was being conquered, and years to escape its tyranny. 

She supposed it didn’t matter now, what they said, what they whispered in the cold of night when they thought no-one could hear. They were all gone now, no-one to serve now her father and brother had turned to ash.

Sometimes, while she lay awake at night staring at the canopy, she thought about how they died. She could feel the searing heat of the flames, licking up the walls before they came tumbling down. She heard the agonised screams piercing through inky clouds of smoke. She smelled the foul stench of skin melting from bone. She felt the sharp sting of culpability, a sorrow she pretended was survivor’s guilt.

She wrapped herself up in black, perfectly playing the part of the grieving daughter and sister. She pretended her father was a good man because that was all anyone wanted to hear. She pretended she had known only his love, rather than the cold sting of the back of his hand.

The way Viserys had touched her was worse.

She didn’t want to think about Viserys. She didn’t want to think about the way he screamed of waking the dragon. She’d always hated the phrase.

But _now_ , as she closed her eyes and counted to ten, she felt that dragon stir.

“Of course, Mr Baelish,” she smiled at the man before her, hoping he wouldn’t notice how it didn’t reach her eyes, “I would be delighted to accompany you.”

It was a lie. He had asked her to attend a ball and it was the last thing she wanted.

She had arrived from America mere hours before, a long journey across the perilous sea. She had left the smoky remnants of the only home she’d ever known behind. She’d watched as the house disappeared the further she travelled, still smouldering in the distance. There was nothing for her now – nothing other than a distant family friend here in London who had agreed to take her in as his ward.

She supposed she should be grateful. She should fall to her knees before him. She couldn’t. Her capacity to feel such things - warmth and gratitude and relief - had long been burned out of her. Besides, unless her cruel father was very different in his younger years, unless Petyr Baelish had known and been friends with a very different man, she didn’t particularly trust him and his character.

“Please – call me Petyr,” he cooed, taking her hand and placing a kiss on the back of her fingers, “we are family now – and I shall care for you like my own daughter.”

But he wasn’t looking at her like a father would, a glint Daenerys knew all too well in his eye. She had the distinctive Targaryen features that made her ancestors famous – hair so pale it was practically silver and bright violet eyes.

Men had been looking at her like that for as long as she could remember.

Perhaps there was a time she would have been flattered. Her cheeks might have blushed prettily, her eyelashes fluttering as she curtsied like a proper young lady should.

That girl had burned along with her family.  
  


* * *

  
Mr Baelish extended his hand as she stepped out of the carriage.

She took it, clasping it delicately as her inquisitive eyes flickered over the impressive white mansions curving around the street.

The ball was being held by a Mr Snow, he had said, and it appeared Mr Snow was fabulously wealthy.

Daenerys was used to wealth. She had been born into it herself – but this affluent district called Belgravia was different. The houses were pristine and built high, all matching with beautifully intricate windows and iron gates. She supposed it held a certain charm, but she thought back to the huge mansions in America, the acres of green land between them, and wondered why anyone would want to live so _on top_ of each other like this.

Once inside, a well-groomed man took her expensive coat, and Petyr let out a low whistle at the sight of her.

She was wearing one of her best dresses, the glittering fabric white as snow. Back home, people said it brought out her eyes and the brightness of her hair and Viserys had liked it so much, she’d stopped wearing it.

“You are a sight for sore eyes, Miss Targaryen,” Petyr said, his hand travelling to the small of her back.

She gave a polite, if a little tense, smile.

“Thank you.”

The servant led them to the main room, an extravagant ballroom already filled with people. The ceilings were high and adorned with expensive chandeliers, diamonds glittering in the light, and Daenerys found herself strangely enraptured by the music, the flurry of suits and dresses as all members of high society turned around the floor.

As a waiter walked past, Daenerys swiped a flute of champagne from his tray. She sipped it, grateful for the bubbles as they scorched down her throat.

She registered the slight pinch of Mr Baelish’s mouth.

She arched a brow. “You don’t approve?”

Her voice was dull, blank, and she watched a smooth smile overtake his face.

“You are free to do as you like, of course.”

She didn’t believe him but didn’t push – and then he was introducing her to his friends.

First, she met Tywin Lannister, a stern looking man who owned a swath of land in the Lake District. He was dressed in fine colours, red and black, and his face was aged and not particularly kind.

“The realm of poets!” she exclaimed, her hand flying excitedly to the man’s forearm. She had spent hours pouring over the works of Wordsworth, Coleridge and Southey, enamoured by their beautiful words, the pictures they painted. That was something about England she _was_ excited about and she was desperate to know more.

Tywin Lannister, however, looked unimpressed by her vigour.

His disdainful gaze dragged from her face to the hand on his arm and back again.

“What a spirited young girl,” he said tersely.

It didn’t sound like a compliment.

Next, she met his children, twins called Cersei and Jaime. Cersei was as stone faced as her father, her mouth sour like she was sucking on a lemon, but Jaime seemed pleasant enough. He kissed the back of her hand and it didn’t make her feel queasy like when Petyr Baelish’s lips touched her skin.

But her favourite was Tyrion, a dwarf whose height reached to her hip. She tried not to stare as she extended her hand.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr Lannister.”

Tyrion’s eyes widened at her accent before he let out a raucous laugh.

“An _American?_ ” he guffawed cheerfully, “why, they’ll consider you even stranger than I!”

“Ignore Mr Lannister,” Mr Baelish grinned, leaning in as though to whisper in her ear conspiratorially, “he does have a flare for the dramatics.”

The man shrugged for it was a fair assertion, but still, his eyes twinkled as they swept over her again.

“Mr Snow will just _love_ you,” he said cryptically.

Daenerys felt Mr Baelish stiffen beside her, his hands clasped behind his back. When she turned her head to look at him, that smooth smile was back but she could tell it was practiced and fake.

“Mr Snow?” she repeated, remembering the name, the invitation he had extended mere hours before, “the owner of this house, correct?”

“Yes,” he said, his tone clipped, “this is his ball.”

Tyrion was still looking at her, his mouth twisted into a lopsided grin.

“He does so love pretty and unusual things,” he clarified, “and you, my dear… are unusually pretty indeed.”  
  


* * *

  
“Sorry!” Daenerys bit out, wincing as she stepped on Mr Baelish’s toes again, “I’m no good at this.”

Mr Baelish smiled his snake-like grin but she could tell he was a little irked. Perhaps she was not as perfect as he expected, his exotic doll from across the seas; a pretty, docile thing for him to show off on his arm.

A pretty, docile thing would know how to dance.

“You did not dance back home?”

 _Home,_ the word resonated in her chest, something nostalgic and painful. There were parts of home she missed and parts she certainly did not and it was hard to reconcile the two. She didn’t quite know how she felt.

She missed her best friend Missandei and her guard Jorah and the mother she never knew. She missed the smell of freshly cut grass and the canopy above her bed that made her feel safe. She didn’t miss the sliver of light as her door creaked open at night, Viserys sneaking in like a thief. She didn’t miss his hands and his breath in her ear and the dirty feeling he left behind. She didn’t miss her pleas to her father to believe her falling on deaf ears. She didn’t miss feeling helpless, the knowledge that no-one cared about her, no-one was coming for her, and that it was up to her to change it.

She did change it, sent it burning in a cloud of smoke, but she could hardly tell Petyr Baelish that. She slipped into the part of a grieving victim again, glancing up at him through heavy eyelashes.

“I’m afraid not,” she murmured, “balls were not so common at home. I’m having a splendid time though.”

The answer seemed to please him.

“I’m glad,” he smiled, “I do hope you’ll be happy here, Miss Targaryen.”

“Daenerys,” she murmured.

“Daenerys,” he repeated.

It appeared he liked the way it sounded on his tongue, she didn’t, and then the air in the room seemed to shift and change.

The music continued but the dancing slowed as everyone turned to look in one direction.

There was a man walking down the intricate spiralled staircase that climbed up the wall. He walked slowly, but he commanded attention, and Daenerys found herself as captivated as the rest.

He was beautiful.

He was dressed all in black, his silver rings a flash of colour as his elegant fingers slid down the bannister. He had dark curls and a dark beard to match, framing a jaw that was square and sharp. Even from a distance, she could see the blackness of his eyes, the indifference in them - cool, unaffected steel. As his eyes flickered over his guests, he held himself with a devil-may-care attitude that bordered on the dangerous, and Daenerys quickly realised who he was.

_Mr Snow._

When he reached the bottom of the stairs, a stunning redhead was waiting for him. His mouth curved into an easy smile as he took her hand, his other hand folded behind his back, and placed a kiss on the back of it. Then, still holding that hand, he turned to the room and the ball came to life again.

The dancing and drinking resumed as the beautiful couple began to dance. Their movements were almost feline, lithe and deadly, and as Mr Baelish turned her around on the floor, Daenerys couldn’t take her eyes off them.

It would be another hour or so before she met Mr Snow herself.

Until then, she burned with a strange sense of anticipation.  
  


* * *

  
The room erupted into applause as a waltz came to an end.

Daenerys almost let out a sigh of relief, her feet sore and aching for a break. Petyr was still next to her and out of the corner of her eye, as she clapped along with everyone else, she saw his hands fall to his sides.

“Mr Snow,” he greeted and Daenerys turned to look at him. “Sansa – you look as stunning as ever.”

The man from the staircase was there, his hands clasped behind his back and his head tipped to the side. His steely gaze drifted over Mr Baelish, his mouth tipped into a casual smile, before that gaze flickered to her. The redhead was still by his side, a beautifully blank expression on her face. The girl had a sort of frozen, timeless beauty, all long legs and hair kissed by fire. 

As they turned to face each other more fully, Daenerys noticed how one of Mr Snow’s hands came to rest on the small of the redhead’s – _Sansa’s -_ back. It was a possessive gesture, clearly defensive, and Daenerys found herself intrigued.

She swallowed, inexplicably rooted to the spot.

His dark eyes searched her frame, starting from her face and dragging all the way to her feet and back. He was shameless about it, completely unapologetic, and she fought the urge to shrink. It felt almost like a test - a dare not to blush, not to shiver, to stand tall.

She thought she must have passed because something akin to interest flickered through his eyes before he turned his attention back to Mr Baelish.

He extended his arm and the two shook hands.

“Mr Baelish, it is good to see you.”

_His voice._

Daenerys had heard English accents before. Mr Baelish himself had the distinct intonation of the British upper-class, something elegant and refined. But _this man_ … this man had a voice like honey, like velvet. It was a low, rumbling brogue, impossibly husky and deep, and it sent a shiver rocketing down her spine.

“Likewise, Mr Snow. Thank you so much for the invitation,” Mr Baelish placed a hand on the small of Daenerys' back then and beckoned her forward, “may I present my ward, Miss Daenerys Targaryen.”

Mr Snow’s eyes flickered to hers again.

“Miss Daenerys,” his tongue wrapped around her name sinfully, wielding it like a weapon, and she didn’t think it was a mistake that he used her Christian name rather than her surname. It hinted at familiarity, at dark intent.

He took her hand and placed a gentle kiss on the back of it.

His eyes held hers, his mouth suspended for a beat too long, and his lips were soft against her skin.

When he pulled back, his kiss left an ache behind.

The girl they called Sansa looked bored, an uninterested expression sweeping over her features, but when Mr Baelish extended his hand to her, she seemed to draw back. Where she had been so cool, impervious like ice, she now seemed meek.

“Would you care to dance?” he asked, either ignorant or uncaring to her obvious discomfort.

Daenerys wasn’t sure which was worse and she watched a muscle in Mr Snow’s cheek twitch before he controlled himself.

“No, she won't dance with you,” he said casually, so dismissive it _must_ have hurt, and Daenerys felt her guardian bristle beside her, “Sansa, why don’t you go make sure Mr Lannister isn’t causing any trouble?”

The girl arched a delicate brow before she nodded, floating away like a sophisticated, wordless angel, towards an already drunk Tyrion.

Mr Snow watched her go before he turned back to Daenerys with an easy smile.

He held his hand out.

“Miss Daenerys?” he murmured as the music started again, the refrains of a soft waltz piercing the air.

Her eyes slid from him to Mr Baelish and back again before she nodded, encasing her hand in his.

As he led her away from her clearly irate guardian, she noticed how his hand was like marble, cool to the touch. She didn’t dwell on it, _couldn’t_ dwell on it - because then he was circling an arm around her waist and holding her other hand in his and she couldn’t _think_ at all.

She bit back a sharp gasp, her nerves lit, and he started to lead.

He was a graceful dancer, every move effortless, and she wanted to look away from his eyes but she just _couldn’t._

She could feel him, the cool bite of his touch, his strength, and everything inside her seemed to flare to life at once. It was a heady, intoxicating feeling. 

"You dance very well.”

His voice was casual and quiet, his dark eyes focused on her face as he led them around the floor.

She almost laughed.

“I dance terribly.”

He arched a brow at that, an unspoken question in his eyes, and so she elaborated.

“I’ve been stepping on Mr Baelish’s toes all evening.”

“Perhaps the fault lies with Mr Baelish, then.”

She blinked, unsure of what to say, before she cleared her throat and averted her gaze.

“You did not want him to dance with that girl,” she said, unable to help herself, and almost cringed at how obvious she was being when she added, “is she your wife?”

His mouth twitched under his beard, like the idea was very amusing to him, like he was in on a secret he wasn’t sharing.

“An old friend,” he corrected simply.

Inexplicably, Daenerys burned to know more.

“She’s very beautiful,” she said – because she _was._

Those dark eyes flashed over her again.

“As are you,” he said casually.

She stared at him, her throat suddenly very dry.

The corner of his mouth lifted.

“Do you think me bold?” he teased.

She shook her head but chose to steer the conversation back to steady ground.

“You seem rather protective of her.”

That brow quirked again.

“Is that a crime?”

He was being deliberately evasive but Daenerys supposed she had no right to be annoyed. They were strangers, after-all, and he owed her nothing and yet she still continued—

“I should like to know if there is something untoward about my new guardian.”

“I respect Mr Baelish as a business associate,” he said clinically, “but perhaps I would keep your wits about you, Miss Daenerys. Sansa has grown weary of his wandering hands.”

Daenerys’ eyes narrowed as she processed this new piece of information.

“Thank you for the warning, Mr Snow,” she said curtly, averting her gaze to a spot just above his right shoulder.

The arm around her pulled her closer, his hand settled on the small of her back. Something warm burned in the pit of her stomach, sparking through her body until it strangled her throat. She could feel him, all smoke and expensive whiskey; she was drowning in it. He was cold but his touch burned, even through the fabric of her dress. She was stunned by her reaction to him, fierce and intense in a way it had never been with any man. It felt natural, her blood singing, like he was meant to fit and surround her just like this.

“You do not seem concerned.”

“I can look after myself,” she answered, her eyes glassing over slightly as she remembered how she had done exactly that.

He tipped his head, his eyes drifting over her face. If she didn’t know any better, she would swear he looked impressed.

The song switched and changed, but he showed no sign of letting her go.

“That’s a pretty accent you have,” he murmured then, “what brings you to London?”

She thought about lying but didn’t see the point – and then she was telling him everything.

“My family died,” she said bluntly, “I’m an orphan. Mr Baelish is an old family friend – he agreed to take me in as his ward.”

“How charitable of him.”

“Quite."

As they danced, his eyes flitted to their locked hands.

“Your hand is very warm,” he said, his tone lined with curiosity, “almost burning to the touch.”

“I’m sorry,” she muttered, something dark welling inside her. He’d noticed she was a freak, noticed she wasn't like everyone else. She should have worn gloves, she scolded herself, but he didn’t look bothered.

“Don’t be,” he said smoothly, “it’s different.”

Daenerys remembered what Tyrion Lannister had said. He liked extraordinary things and no-one who knew her – _truly_ knew her – could call her ordinary. Perhaps he hungered for new experiences, new challenges and new feelings.

He was the ice to her fire, cool and unaffected, while she burned from the inside out.

Her eyes flickered around the room, taking in the beautiful paintings and expensive chandeliers. He was clearly a man of extravagant wealth and his own beauty was almost unnerving.

“You have a lovely home,” she said politely.

His mouth twitched under his beard but he didn’t respond. He was very closed off, his expression dark and shuttered, and she wanted to break down those walls. She wanted to unleash a hurricane and see what destruction he left in his wake. She was irritatingly, desperately, overwhelmingly enthralled.

“Why so many paintings?” she asked, knowing photographs were all the rage at the moment, “why not photographs?”

“Photographs are so oddly transient," he answered, "they capture one moment in time to perfection. A painting can capture eternity.”

She was intrigued by the response, her eyes flickering over the many different portraits.

“Can _you_ paint?”

He nodded. “Yes.”

“And what do you paint?”

There was an easy tip of his mouth again. “All manner of life.”

Her eyes flickered from his dark gaze to his full mouth and back again.

“Such as?”

“I like works that seek to explore, to expose what is hidden.”

Her tongue peeked out to wet her dry lips and she didn't miss how his eyes followed the movement. The air bristled between them, burning white hot, something thin and heady. It felt like it was choking her and she realised what it was.

_Desire._

“You must like hidden things...” she said quietly, “...for you hide things very well.”

His brow arched, his eyes flickering pointedly to her hand.

_Burning to the touch._

“As do you.”

She conceded with a click of her tongue. A brief look of triumph flickered over his face before the song changed once again and Mr Baelish was standing beside them.

“May I cut in?”

Mr Snow paused before letting her go. His fingers brushed hers as he did so and her hands ached from the loss.

As he walked away, she stared after him, a strange stirring sensation in the pit of her stomach and _there it was._

The end of life as she knew it.

* * *

  
“How old are you?”

Daenerys asked the next time she saw Mr Snow.

He was standing in the hallway of Mr Baelish’s mansion, his fancy coat still around his shoulders and leather gloves on his hands. He had just arrived, perhaps for a business meeting though Daenerys had no way of knowing. She would never be involved, she thought scornfully, and she stood by the bottom of the stairs.

She was _bored_.

And Mr Snow was an enigma she was desperate to solve.

From one angle, he looked to be in his early thirties, but then the light caught his face and he looked much younger still. They said he had developed an exceptional level of knowledge through his many travels and exploits and his reputation preceded him. Daenerys had heard it mentioned many times since she arrived, from jealous men and fawning women alike. Nothing seemed to faze him. In-fact, he seemed drawn to the dangerous, the risky.

She couldn’t work him out.

“Older than I look,” he teased—and then Mr Baelish was calling for him.  
  


* * *

  
Daenerys soon came to realise that the social circles in London were very small.

She saw Mr Snow often – at balls, dinners, the theatre. She came to know him as well as he would allow, little glimpses of someone fascinating. As the months went by, she got the impression he was trying to work her out too, and she kept herself guarded. Protected.

He flitted in and out of her life seemingly without rhyme or reason, but when he _was_ around… the lights seemed to dim everywhere else.

They gravitated towards each other, even now, at a gathering Mr Baelish had arranged. There were guests gathered outside, their breaths casting billowy clouds of smoke in the cold air, but he was _here_ —standing behind her in one of Baelish’s studies.

Perhaps it was inappropriate, to be alone with him like this without a chaperone. She was sure Mr Baelish wouldn’t like it. But she couldn’t find it in herself to care, not when she could sense him, his strangely calming presence.

She was standing by the window, looking out at what the guests outside were waiting for. It was an eclipse, they said, a moment when the moon passed between the earth and the sun and thrust them into shadow.

It was silent in a way that was strangely comfortable.

“You don’t want to go outside and watch with the others?” he asked quietly.

She turned to face him, her hands gripping the edge of the windowsill behind her.

“No,” she said simply, “do you?”

He smiled, something smooth and disarming.

“No.”

He took a step towards her, his fingers dancing along the surface of the heavy oak desk in the middle of the office. She held her breath as he approached, trying to keep her face still, and she waited until he reached her before she turned around.

A smirk played on her lips as she looked out of the window again.

As the sky started to darken, the guests muttering excitedly outside, Daenerys felt him behind her.

“Have you seen many of these, Mr Snow?” she asked, subtly pushing the notion of his age again.

As always, he skirted around the question.

“Is it not Jon now?”

She smiled, her head angling down and slightly to the side.

“Of course, Jon,” she liked the way his name sounded as her tongue wrapped around it.

She wondered what it would sound like under different circumstances. When he stole it from her mouth as he kissed her. When she chanted it as he buried his head under her skirts and put his pretty mouth to her soaking cunt. When she sobbed it as he moved inside her, bringing her to a peak so powerful, she’d forget her own. She blushed at the thought, wondering when she became so wanton.

She could feel him now, just behind her, his coolness, his strength.

The air seemed to still as one of his hands touched her waist.

She tried not to react, keeping her eyes focused on the sky, even as her heart fluttered wildly against her ribcage.

His other hand slowly snaked its way up her slender neck. She bit back a gasp at the feel of his rings, cool steel against her flushed skin.

As he held her, the moon covered the earth and for a moment, the world was dark.

Time stilled, gaping between them like a yawning chasm, and there was nothing.

No Baelish, no journey across the sea, no boring parties with even more boring people, no deadly fire… there was only him.

His fingers slid deftly across her collarbone, splaying over the hollow of her throat, leaving a path of electricity in his wake. Then his thumb gently brushed over her bottom lip, rolling it from between her teeth. She hadn’t realised she’d been biting it and she tasted the faint, metallic tang of blood.

They didn’t speak until the world was bathed in light again.

“That would have made a fine photograph,” she whispered and her voice sounded deeper, huskier.

She felt, more than heard, his chuckle.

“It wouldn’t be the first,” he said, like that meant it was useless, “that was Julius Berkowski. He captured an eclipse in Prussia in 1851.”

 _How does he know that?_ she marvelled.

He seemed to know everything, a fount of knowledge that must have taken years to accumulate. Years he didn’t look to have. She burned with the desire to understand him again.

She tipped her head back, leaning into him slightly. She could feel the solid muscles of his chest against her back, the strong lines of him, and heat sparked between her thighs. She wanted him to touch her. She wanted that hand around her neck to snake its way down, those ringed fingers to slip between her thighs and relieve the ache.

She was sure he knew it too.

“1851…” she whispered breathlessly, “nearly 30 years ago. A lifetime…”

He was silent for a moment and she wondered what she’d said.

“A moment,” he corrected quietly.  
  


* * *

  
“You don’t agree?”

Mr Snow’s – _Jon’s_ – voice was quiet, lined with amusement, as she stared daggers at the sight before her.

They were sitting outside, at a table belonging to one of Covent Garden's most expensive restaurants, as a handful of policemen brutally dragged a group of screaming women away in carriages. Daenerys watched as one was struck with a baton, her scream piercing the air.

The crowd bristled around them, awkwardly avoiding them, and when the chaos had ended, a placard reading _Votes for Women_ lay discarded on the cobbled stone.

“I _do_ agree,” she argued, annoyed, “why should a woman be thought of as lesser just because of what is – or isn’t – between her legs? Is our opinion not as valid? Do we not think and feel, the same as you?”

Jon’s mouth twitched under his beard, his finger casually dancing along the rim of his whiskey glass.

“I meant you do not agree with the police.”

“Oh,” she shifted in her seat, “no, I do not.”

“I understand the situation is much the same in your own country?” he asked about America.

“Yes,” she sighed, “I concede I can’t _fight_ as well as a man. But I can read and write and argue and defend myself in other ways. But still, it appears wherever I go, I have no voice.”

He waved a hand, as though beckoning for her to go on.

“I’m listening. I agree with you entirely.”

“Then you are an exception,” she murmured, keeping an eye on the inside of the restaurant where Mr Baelish was chatting to some patrons and would return any moment. She fought the urge to roll her eyes, hazarding a guess which side of the debate he would be on.

“An exception?” he asked.

“To the rule," she replied.

He sat back in his chair, his expression interested.

“So it is _all_ men you distrust?”

She gave a little shrug, her eyes focused on that lonely placard, the symbol of a united people desperate for change.

“I’ve never met a man who didn’t want to beat me or fuck me,” she muttered, her eyes widening slightly when she realised what she’d said.

Her eyes dragged slowly to his face, her shoulders tensing.

He looked positively delighted, something sparking behind his eyes at her fire.

“It would rather anger me to see you hurt,” he said, his brows furrowing and his tone a little fierce before it darkened quietly, “but on that other front… it appears I am not an exception at all.”

She swallowed, heat sparking throughout her body. 

They were still dancing around it, wrapping it up in euphemism, but the implication behind his words was clear.

He’d breathed life into it, into this thing between them, and there would be no going back now.  
  


* * *

  
“Does Mr Baelish know you’re here?”

Jon asked when she found herself on his doorstep, three months after that first time.

He was leaning against the door, his arms folded over his chest, and she shivered in the cold London air. She still wasn’t used to the climate, even if she did quite like the chill.

“He’s away,” she said, “he left me alone.”

Jon’s brow arched, his gaze flickering over her.

Then he opened the door wider and let her step inside.

He took her to the main room. It looked different when it wasn’t full of people and she clasped her hands in-front of her. He was irritatingly silent as she wandered the room. Finally, she saw a book laying on an oak table and she leaned in to see what he was reading. Her brow quirked at the title.

 _Frankenstein, or The Modern Prometheus_ by Mary Shelley.

“Have you read it?” his voice came from behind her, husky and low.

Her finger trailed along the edge of the frayed pages.

“Yes,” she answered, “it’s terribly sad.”

He came to stand next to her, his hands clasped behind his back.

“Is it?”

The question surprised her for she didn’t think it was a controversial opinion. She turned to face him, a question written on her face.

“Of course. The creature is intelligent and sensitive, but cast out because he’s different. He’s entirely alone, the only one of his kind. What a dreadful curse.”

He tipped his head to the side, searching her forlorn face.

“ _Is_ it a curse to be different?” he pushed, “to be unique, to be powerful… is it not a divine gift?”

She frowned, considering it for a moment.

“I think I would give up my specialness if I could find someone like me.”

He seemed unsurprised by her answer and his gaze started to burn, to press too close, too deep.

“Then you would no longer be special.”

“Nor would I be alone.”

He paused, staring at her for a moment before his mouth curved into a smile.

She stared right back, something unspoken passing between them.

It was too much, too intense, and then he said—

“What happened to your family?”

She froze.

“They died.”

“How?”

She let out an irritated breath. “A fire.”

He took a step towards her until they were toe to toe. His eyes were dark and inquisitive, piercing straight through to her soul, and her throat felt thick with emotion.

“How did it start?”

She shook her head, her mouth pursed into a tight line.

His hand came up to cup her face, his thumb swiping over her cheekbone.

“How?” he urged gently.

She tried to look away but he held her gaze. He wouldn’t let her run.

“I started it,” she finally whispered, the confession leaving her mouth in a rush of breath that grieved and relieved her at the same time, “I wanted to die too.”

“But you didn’t,” he murmured, his thumb still swiping gently over her cheekbone, “how?”

She closed her eyes, remembering the choking heat of the flames, how they had suffocated her. She remembered seeing them lick up her body but feeling nothing. The fire destroyed her clothes but left her intact and then her brother and father were dead and she just… _wasn’t…_ and she didn’t know why.

“I don’t know,” she whispered.

“You’re special,” he answered for her, “I knew it from the moment I saw you.”

“Like you?” she fired back, furiously blinking back the tears that burned behind her eyes.

“Yes,” he said honestly, “we’re one of a kind, my darling.”

The name sent a shiver down her spine.

“How _old_ are you?” she asked again—slowly, deliberately.

His expression was blank, frustratingly unreadable when he answered—

“Ancient.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“When were you born?”

He shrugged slightly. “I don’t recall.”

“What happened to you?”

His hand slid down to her neck, his fingers splaying over the hollow of her throat.

“So many questions,” he teased.

“I told you my secret,” she said fiercely, “tell me yours.”

He clicked his tongue.

“In time,” he said—and then he kissed her.  
  


* * *

  
Daenerys shivered as Jon’s tongue slid down her neck.

She was standing in-front of the fireplace in his room, a room even more beautiful than the one downstairs, and she was stripped down to her corset but still, she _burned._

His touch was a soothing balm, always so cool, and she felt the curve of his mouth against her neck, the grit of his beard.

Her eyes opened, something dark sweeping over her, and they focused on the flames before her.

She liked the warmth, the way the heat kissed her skin. It crawled over her like a blanket, heady and intoxicating, and the memory should have been bitter and sour but it _wasn’t_. It was welcome—and she craved the fire’s touch. She watched the flames dance and flicker, listened to the crackling sounds, smelled the smoke. She wanted to reach for it.

He must have noticed because his mouth paused over her neck and his cock hardened against her behind.

“Show me,” he murmured, his breath hot in her ear.

She shuddered again but obeyed his command, her fingers drifting out in-front of her.

It was as though she were under a spell as the slender digits reached closer to the fire. Jon had stilled behind her, his hands gripping her hips, but she felt his cock twitch and swell the closer she got to the flames. Her uniqueness, her power... it didn't scare him or disgust him, two emotions she had dealt with her entire life. It _aroused_ him. Finally, her hand was _in_ the fire, the flames dancing across her flesh, but her face remained impassive. There was no pain, no discomfort, only a flickering spark of desire.

He let out a little growl, pulling her hand back and twisting her around.

He covered her mouth with his, his tongue swiping across her bottom lip and demanding entry. She kissed him back eagerly, releasing a little moan into his mouth as their tongues tangled.

Her hands wandered over his shirtless chest, her fingernails digging into the strong muscle. He let out a little grunt, his hands tugging her hips closer. He tasted like wine and smoke from the fire and something else she couldn’t put her finger on and she deepened the kiss, taking control.

She bit back a heated gasp as their groins connected, his thigh pushing her legs apart so he could shove it between them. Even through the layers of her stockings and his trousers, she was sure he could feel her heat, her wetness, seeping down her thighs. She sunk her teeth into her bottom lip, fighting the instinctive urge to thrust her hips, to grind her aching cunt on his thigh, to use him for her own pleasure until stars exploded behind her eyes.

His mouth was hot in her hair and she shuddered when his lips brushed her ear.

“Do I need to be gentle?” he asked roughly.

She kissed him in response, hard and deep and desperate, and nipped at his bottom lip.

She tugged it between her teeth before she let it go. The growl he gave was more animal than man.

She walked him backwards, her hands working to unbutton his trousers. He was annoyingly graceful as he stepped out of them and then he was naked. Once his knees hit the back of the bed, she pushed him down onto the silk, beckoning for him to lay back so she could climb over him. She straddled his thighs, felt him hard underneath her, and everything slowed to a halt.

Perched atop him, her hands anchoring themselves on his chest, she stared down at him.

 _Mine,_ the word hissed through her mind before she could stop it.

The smirk he gave her was positively wolfish.

“Yes,” he murmured, “yours.”

She faltered, froze.

She was sure she didn’t say that out loud.

But then he reared up and captured her lips in a fierce kiss and she couldn’t think at all.

His tongue licked inside her mouth and his length was hard and throbbing as it slid against her soaking cunt. Her mind flooded with sensation. His lips travelled to her cheek, down her neck, and he planted hot, open mouthed kisses down the length of her flushed skin. His fingers danced down her arms until he caught her hands and pulled them back. She gasped as her back arched, her breasts heaving out of the corset, and then his mouth was sucking a bloom into the top of her breast.

Her breath escaped in heavy pants as she tore her arms out of his grasp and buried her hands in his hair. She had always wanted to touch his curls and they were as soft as she’d imagined. She tugged them slightly, her nails scratching, and he released a little grunt into her breast.

As he returned to kissing her neck, his deft fingers trailed behind her to untie her laces. Then he pulled the corset away from her body and caught her aching nipple with his teeth. She cursed, her hips rolling as he flicked it with his tongue.

He laid back, releasing her nipple with a pop, and one hand went to her hip while the other cupped her face.

She moaned, leaning into his touch and capturing his thumb between her teeth. She gave it a little suck, lathing the pad with her tongue. She ground against his throbbing length, her wetness soaking through the material of her panties, and she felt the fat head of his cock kiss her clit.

She shoved a hand between her legs and pulled the lace to the side. Then, she took his cock in her hand and positioned it at her entrance.

He tutted, his fingers curling around her wrist.

“These things shouldn’t be rushed,” he murmured and then he flipped them until she was on her back, “I want to taste your cunt.”

She moaned, her cheeks bursting into heat as he made his way down her flushed body. He quickly removed her garter, stockings and panties, discarding them on the floor.

Her thighs parted for him as though under a spell and she would be embarrassed at how wet she was, how slick and ready, if he wasn’t looking at her like a man starved. He licked his lips and then opened them, pausing to drop a globule of spit directly onto her pulsing clit, before he went to work.

“Fuck,” she bit out, her body arching against the bed as his cool tongue slid up her slit.

His dark curls were a shock of black against her pale, milky thighs. His mouth was unbearably talented; he’d had an unknown number of years to perfect his technique, and he played her like an instrument he mastered years ago. His tongue wrung out her pleasure, his nose bumping her clit.

She didn’t know what to do with her hands so they bunched his sheets into fists. One of his hands snaked up to grab one of hers and he placed it in his hair, encouraging her to hold on. She tangled her fingers in the strands, revelling in the thick little growl that rumbled from his throat.

His hands went to her thighs, spreading her open for him.

“So wet,” he murmured, the tip of a finger circling her clit teasingly, “is this all for me?”

“Yes,” she panted, arching her back.

He licked her again, a hot stripe from her entrance to her clit. Her toes curled into the sheets as he dipped two fingers inside her, gently crooking them in a come-hither motion. The added stimulation sent her orgasm rocketing through her and he groaned as a fresh flood of wetness gushed from her, soaking his beard. He slung an arm over her stomach to keep her still as he lapped at her, bringing her back down to earth.

Through the haze in her mind, she registered him wiping his mouth on the inside of her thigh and then he was covering her with his body again.

His mouth and beard still glistened with her juices and when she leaned up to kiss him, she could taste herself, tart and tangy on his tongue.

He curled two fingers against her entrance, making her shudder, and then offered them to her. They glistened, sticky and wet, in the warm candlelight. She kept his eyes as she opened her lips and flicked her tongue against them.

Then, he pushed them deeper into her mouth.

“How do you taste?”

She moaned around his fingers, tasting her own cum.

“Sweet,” she said.

“Perfect,” he added—and then the head of his cock was nudging at her entrance.

She squeezed his hips between her thighs and then rolled them over.

“I want to ride you,” she explained, wanting to be in control, and he gave a little groan at the words.

His cock was rock hard and velvety and _beautiful_ and she positioned it at her entrance. His eyes darkened, pupils blown to black, as she held her breath and slowly sunk down onto him.

There was a flash of white as he hissed through his teeth, his hands travelling to her hips. She shuddered, little ripples of pleasure travelling down his length, and started to slide up and down. White hot pleasure sparked from her fingertips to her toes and her breath quickened, pleasure coiling in the pit of her stomach.

The fire hadn’t burned her but this felt like flames, an aching desire clutching at her chest.

Her thighs started to tremble around him and he grabbed onto her ass hard with both hands.

“God, you feel…” the words lodged in her throat, caught on a sob, and she rode him harder.

His top lip curled slightly as his fingers dug into her hips and he guided her up and down his cock. She let him set the pace, his fingers bound to leave bruises come morning. She leaned down, his length sliding out of her before he pushed back in. Their mouths brushed hotly, sliding together but not quite connecting, and his hips snapped as he thrust harder into her wet channel.

“You’re so tight,” he grunted against her mouth, her loose hair creating a silver curtain around them, “I’m not going to last.”

“Yes,” she whispered, her tongue flicking out and tangling with his, “come inside me. Fill me up.”

He groaned, let out a little curse and then his fingers were snaking their way between their sweat slicked bodies. He found her clit and rubbed it in tight circles, kept his heated gaze on her face as he watched her fracture for him again. The orgasm rolled over her, making her shiver on top of him, rippling along his cock.

He fucked her harder, pounding into her from below, and her gasps escaped her in heated pants. He was beautiful when he came, his jaw locked tight and pleasure flashing across his stoic, ageless face. How many orgasms had he had, she wondered? How many women had he fucked, how many men? How much had he seen and where had he been and had he ever been happy, because he didn’t seem happy now? She wanted to know all of it.

She shuddered as she felt his cum spurt into her, coating her womb. Dread set in, white hot panic, as she began to see rationally again. Was his seed virile? Could he have children, _did_ he have children?

She imagined not. He seemed so alone.

As she collapsed on his chest, his seed leaking out onto her inner thighs, she wondered if he would send her away.

He had seen so much. He sought only what was new, new adventures, new feelings. He liked her because she was different but now he’d had her, and having her again would just be repetition. Could he feel or had his heart wasted away, like a muscle that atrophies from lack of use?

She decided it didn’t matter.

She would enjoy it while it lasted, enjoy _him_ while it lasted—because here, she finally felt alive.

But then he was reading her mind and she _knew_ —

“Relax, my darling. I’ve waited a long time for you.”

—he wouldn’t be letting her go at all.

**Author's Note:**

> I know the Targaryens aren't immune to fire, but I kinda like the idea of Dany bringing her wrath down on Viserys and Aerys, fire and blood and all that. I left the precise nature of Jon's immortality ambiguous because mystery is sexy, right? Right?! In my head, it's not strictly a Dorian Gray scenario with the portrait and everything - but you can fill the blanks however you see fit.


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